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Modern English
Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court? Here feel we but the penalty of Adam, The seasons’ difference, as the icy fang And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind, Which, when it bites and blows upon my body, Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say ’This is no flattery: these are counsellors That feelingly persuade me what I am.’ Sweet are the uses of adversity, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; And this our life exempt from public haunt Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones and good in every thing. I would not change it.
Now, my friends and brothers in exile, Hasn’t old habit made this life sweeter Than the life of showy wealth and power? Are these woods Safer from danger than the jealous court? Here we only face the punishment of Adam, The changing seasons, like the icy bite And bitter cold of the winter wind, Which, when it bites and blows on my body, Even though I shrink with cold, I smile and say ‘This is no flattery: these are counselors Who wisely remind me of who I am.’ The uses of hardship are sweet, Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Yet wears a precious jewel on its head; And this life of ours, away from public gaze, Finds speech in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything. I wouldn’t change it.
Happy is your grace, That can translate the stubbornness of fortune Into so quiet and so sweet a style.
You are fortunate, Your Grace, That you can turn the stubbornness of fate Into such a calm and sweet perspective.
Come, shall we go and kill us venison? And yet it irks me the poor dappled fools, Being native burghers of this desert city, Should in their own confines with forked heads Have their round haunches gored.
Come, shall we go and hunt some venison? And yet it bothers me that the poor spotted deer, Being natural inhabitants of this wild place, Should, in their own home, be gored by hunters’ horns.
Indeed, my lord, The melancholy Jaques grieves at that, And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp Than doth your brother that hath banish’d you. To-day my Lord of Amiens and myself Did steal behind him as he lay along Under an oak whose antique root peeps out Upon the brook that brawls along this wood: To the which place a poor sequester’d stag, That from the hunter’s aim had ta’en a hurt, Did come to languish, and indeed, my lord, The wretched animal heaved forth such groans That their discharge did stretch his leathern coat Almost to bursting, and the big round tears Coursed one another down his innocent nose In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool Much marked of the melancholy Jaques, Stood on the extremest verge of the swift brook, Augmenting it with tears.
Indeed, my lord, The melancholy Jaques is upset by that, And, in his way, claims that you’re doing more harm Than your brother who banished you. Today my Lord of Amiens and I Stole up behind him while he lay resting Under an oak whose ancient roots peek out Over the stream that rushes through this wood: To this spot, a poor wounded stag, Who had been hurt by the hunter’s arrow, Came to die, and indeed, my lord, The miserable animal gave such deep groans That his leather skin stretched almost to breaking, And the large tears Rolled down his innocent nose In a pitiful stream; and thus the poor creature, Much noticed by the melancholy Jaques, Stood at the edge of the fast-moving stream, Adding to it with his tears.
But what said Jaques? Did he not moralize this spectacle?
But what did Jaques say? Didn’t he give a moral to this scene?
O, yes, into a thousand similes. First, for his weeping into the needless stream; ’Poor deer,’ quoth he, ’thou makest a testament As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more To that which had too much:’ then, being there alone, Left and abandon’d of his velvet friends, ’’Tis right:’ quoth he; ’thus misery doth part The flux of company:’ anon a careless herd, Full of the pasture, jumps along by him And never stays to greet him; ’Ay’ quoth Jaques, ’Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens; ’Tis just the fashion: wherefore do you look Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?’ Thus most invectively he pierceth through The body of the country, city, court, Yea, and of this our life, swearing that we Are mere usurpers, tyrants and what’s worse, To fright the animals and to kill them up In their assign’d and native dwelling-place.
Oh, yes, he turned it into a thousand comparisons. First, he compared the deer’s weeping to the pointless stream; ‘Poor deer,’ he said, ‘you’re making a will Just like worldly people, giving more to those Who already have too much:’ then, being alone, Left and abandoned by his fancy friends, ‘It’s true,’ he said, ‘this is how misery separates The flow of company:’ soon, a careless herd, Full of the pasture, jumped past him And didn’t stop to greet him; ‘Yes,’ said Jaques, ‘Go on, you fat and lazy citizens; It’s just the way it is: why do you look At that poor, broken, bankrupt creature there?’ And in this way he harshly attacked The body of the country, the city, the court, And even our life, claiming that we Are nothing but usurpers, tyrants, and worse, To scare the animals and kill them In their rightful, natural homes.
And did you leave him in this contemplation?
And did you leave him in this mood?
We did, my lord, weeping and commenting Upon the sobbing deer.
Yes, my lord, we left him weeping and reflecting On the sobbing deer.
Show me the place: I love to cope him in these sullen fits, For then he’s full of matter.
Show me the spot: I enjoy confronting him in these gloomy moods, Because then he’s full of thoughts.
I’ll bring you to him straight.
I’ll take you to him right away.